


Why are we so tired?

by morbidly_at_peace



Category: 1984 - George Orwell
Genre: Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Julia is mentioned, Kinda, M/M, Torture, one-sided, the chocolate ration is mentioned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-24
Updated: 2020-07-24
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:08:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25478197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morbidly_at_peace/pseuds/morbidly_at_peace
Summary: As O'Brien attempts to reform Winston, the other begins to develop undesired feelings for him.
Relationships: O'Brien/Winston Smith (1984)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 38





	Why are we so tired?

**Author's Note:**

> Alternate Summary - I read 1984 and took two thing away from it: yet another existential crisis and an avid interest in the relationship between Winston and O'Brien.
> 
> This fanfic is like my child in that I never really wanted it, it has kept me awake for many nights and it has my eyes. So I hope that is a ringing endorsement enough for you to read it.
> 
> Also feel free to comment if I made any mistakes that bothered you or you just want to share how you would have improved the story.

"You have said on a few of occasions that you believe the chocolate ration used to be thirty grammes. Do you still believe this?"

Winston hesitated, eyeing the dial cautiously. His throat tightened as with each possible response he conjured, unsure that any would suffice. O'Brien seemed to take some sort of pity on him as he added with a patient smile, "Be honest. I want to know what you believe."

"Y-yes, it was reduced to twenty from thirty", he rasped, his voice hoarse from screaming. Though he seemed pleased that he didn't lie to him again, that tiredness returned to his eyes as though he was disappointed in him. Shame washed over him, mildly rejecting his own admission.

"Why do you believe this? Is there any evidence?"

"I have my memories of the telescreen telling me so and I was also given a written document at the Ministry of Truth", he said almost pleadingly to O'Brien, appealing with him to believe him. He wasn't mentally deranged. He can't be.

"Winston, you have created a false memory", he stated firmly, "There is no records of this happening, therefore it has not happened. Now I'll ask you again the chocolate ration has always been twenty grammes, has it not?"

"But it hasn't! It exists in my memory so it was reduced!", he momentarily forgot the dial in his desperation but he was swiftly reminded.

"Don't be so needlessly stubborn! You know better than that!", he chided harshly before composing himself, "Again."

"No!", he cried, cringing as he saw the thinning of the other's lip as he moved the lever forward. Shooting agonising pain shot up his spine, threatening to break his bones. He writhed on the table, the bonds digging in his skin as he twisted to get away from the inescapable pain. 

O'Brien eased the dial and looked down at him patiently asking again, "It had always been twenty grammes, has it not?"

"...no", he was cut off by the pain again, it must have been twice was it was before. He could vaguely hear himself crying out, incoherently begging him to stop through the tears.

"You are the only one with this memory, Winston. What reason do you have to be sure that it ever was thirty?"

He attempt to regain his breath, vocal cords raw and scratchy. He wished he could wipe the degrading tears away, but as he went to raise his hand, his bonds clinked loudly. O'Brien noticed his judging by the flickering of his eyes but made no move help him, that stern wisdom remaining in his countenance. "Because I remember it."

"I don't", he said coldly, placing his large hand on the dial again, "Do you believe still that the chocolate ration used to be thirty grammes?"

"Ye-", he was stopped dead in his reply his own sharp gasp, flinching as O'Brien increasing the dial slowly as he waited for him to finish, "I-I don't know! Please stop! Stop it! No! I don't believe it!"

"Better."

He was blubbering as he thrashing on the table, only slightly calming as the pain was dialled down at his final admission. Loosening his bonds, O'Brien held him in a strong arm as the white coat looked him over. He clung to the larger man, sobbing in his half embrace, his tears damping the dark overalls,. He hadn't realised his head had lolled onto the other's broad shoulder, until the doctor sharply grabbed his face to check his pupils, before dropping it back down to take his pulse. O'Brien continued to keep a firm grasp on him as he was examined, his warmth was comforting, protective almost. He leaned closer, the memory of those drowsy evenings in the room above Mr Charrington's shop, his body pressed against Julia's. The older man's body was so unlike hers, more solid and strong, but he felt a degree of safety against the powerful chest that he hadn't with her.

But after the white coat gave him a nod, O'Brien lowered him back on the table, tightening his bonds once more. Winston went to sit up in protest but was pushed back down his large hand. His side felt cold where the other had left him.

"Now did you tell me what you think I want to hear or what you believe?", he asked a little more gentle this time. O'Brien already knew his answer, his intelligent eyes looking imploringly at him. He closed his eyes in shame as he tears rolled down his cheeks in fat droplets.

"What you want to hear."

"Look at me, Winston", he commanded, leaning over him. From the angle, his shadowed face was hideously sinister and gargantuan in size to the point where Winston was pressing himself into the table to distance himself. In a low, authoritative tone, he said, "Again."

It was agonising, like his bones were being torn apart at each ligament, and it didn't stop. It must have been maximum power, if there even was a limit. His whole face was clenched in some vain attempt to lessen the intensity of it, his teeth gritted as he groaned through them. At least he hadn't bit his tongue again. O'Brien drew back the level and asked him again.

If he was the only one who remembered, then could it really have happened? He recalled how Parsons and Syme didn't even bristle at the announcement it had been increased to twenty. Did it even matter? It was just a misquoted chocolate ration. He looked back to O'Brien's worn face, remembering how he told him he was worth the trouble he was taking. He didn't deserve his kindness if he couldn't even agree on a simple fact. What if he actually was wrong? He must look incredibly stupid.

"I'm not sure. I must have heard it wrong", he said shakily, avoiding O'Brien's intense gaze.

"Yes. You just made a mistake." He could hear the smile in his voice. He felt a little proud of himself for not disappointing him again. From the corner of his eye, he could see him nod his head to the doctor, who promptly took his arm, injecting him with that blissful substance. His exhaustion seemed to seep out of him, leaving him pleasantly dazed. The gratitude he felt for O'Brien was immense, that deep love he felt for him returning, friend or foe. He mumbled in appreciation, a bit embarrassed at his previous behaviour. So stubborn. It hadn't occurred to him he was still crying until the other's hand swiped the dampness off his cheek, before turning to leave. Winston went to sit up, rattling the bonds loudly in his distress, worried he wouldn't come back. At the noise, the other turned back with his gentle yet tired smile and held his hand as he lost consciousness. His eyes so unfathomably exhausted.

"..why are you always so tired O'Brien?", he wondered quietly in his haze watching as a mild look of surprise crossed his features before it was gone, like it never happened. No reply was given as the man simply held his hand as he fell unconscious.

-===-

"He's very clingy, isn't he?", the white coat said with distaste, eyeing O'Brien warily.

"Quite", he coolly replied in a clipped tone. He was purposefully laconic, rejecting the other's meaning as he coldly dropped Winston's hand and left the room. He rubbed a hand across his tense face, making his way to the canteen.

Winston was slowly but surely coming along with the Party's way of thinking, despite his nasty habit of clinging to small, pointless beliefs and allowing them to fuel his opposition. The faster they were eradicated, the sooner Winston could be saved from his own mind. However as his beliefs were being proven to be falsities, O'Brien was concerned that he was being to centre his opposition onto him. The way he had burrowed his face into his shoulder, leaning closer to his embrace, the intent was clear behind his actions.

It wasn't uncommon for criminals to look for emotional support from him even as he interrogated them. It was just the natural way for the human mind to cope under such a mental strain. O'Brien often encouraged this emotional bond to an extent as it made them more trusting and quickened reformation. The comfort they sought from him wasn't personal, they didn't care who they got it from, he wasn't their saviour. The Party was and they were aware of that; As they should be.

Though Winston's seemed a little less general. He recoiled from the doctor's touch but leaned into his own. At first he'd dismissed it as the pre-established relationship they already had, him being the last link he had to his rebellious past. After all, he had mentioned in that diary of his about the trust he felt between them so it was understandable that he would prefer his company to others. 

But this wasn't a case of preference as he was actively repelled by anyone else. Even when interrogated by the 'Party intellectuals', he seemed adverse to their kinder methods of appealing to his sense of loyalty to Big Brother while calling him their "comrade". Despite being reduced to tears, he remained firm his beliefs, only ever cracking under the beatings he'd receive in retaliation. It never lasted though as soon as he'd reasonably recovered, he would continue spouting about the Party's corruption. With how little self-preservation he had, he would have died from the severity of the treatment. Still sick and despising Big Brother. It was inevitable he'd be sent to O'Brien really, his method of interrogation being more refined in its coercion. Winston needed him to be saved so he had ignored the signs of the particular 'attachment', it could only really aid the process.

Or so he had thought. 

While he was pleased that they had overcome his small yet persistent belief of the reduction of the chocolate ration that he'd so desperately clung to, he also felt the intimacy of the way he'd responded to his touch. Curling into him the way he observed him do so many with his fellow adulterer, Julia, if he recalled correctly.

He considered that Winston was just using him as a substitute for her, which would easily he resolved once he'd been treated in Room 101. If he didn't love her, then a substitute wouldn't be needed. So he once again resolved to ignore it, despite the nagging feeling he was getting. However his last question had confirmed it. It would have been fairly innocuous elsewhere, a simple question about his well being, nothing more, but this was the Ministry of Love. After many years of working as an interrogator, he'd become quite adept at understanding the mind of thought-criminals, Winston being no exception. In fact, he was possibly even easier to read due to their similarities. He understood that thought-criminals didn't tend to think, never mind ask, about anything other than food, stopping the pain and occasionally about a fellow perpetrator. In the daze of pain, exhaustion and stress, their questions were primarily selfish and nonsensical.

Winston's wasn't either of these. He could call it nonsensical, a slip of the mind under the influence of drugs, but was it really? He was tired, immensely so, and it definitely showed in the heavy lines about his eyes. There was no denying or hiding it so he could understand that of course he would notice. The question however was curiously selfless, so unlike the typical behaviour of a thought-criminal. Although the typical thought-criminal didn't have romantic feelings for their interrogator, especially one with his brand of sadistic technique. He grimaced at the thought, pushing up his glasses to properly rest on his nose.

This created a problem for O'Brien because he had no way of deterring Winston's feelings for him without also pushing him away from the Party, which was to be avoided for obvious reasons. On the other hand, if he continued to cure him as he did before, he would only strengthen his feelings toward him, which would make it even more difficult to prevent his affections. Realistically O'Brien couldn't be the one to do it but he doubted the Ministry would accept that. They would encourage him to use the attachment to his advantage then simply eradicate his feelings for him through the same method. Feelings couldn't be eradicated though. Beliefs could be changed, memories altered and thoughts ignored but feelings were complex. He had only ever removed hatred of big brother and, sometimes, love between thought-criminals.

He suppressed the urge to sigh as he got some Victory coffee, sitting down at one of the many tables in floor's break room. There were a few empty spaces but he chose one occupied by a lone officer, who seemed entirely unfazed by his arrival, continuing to gobble down his lunch. He hoped that their presence deter one of his more friendly 'comrades' from joining him as he wanted to consider his options. 

While he recognised that another opinion could have been immensely useful in his decision, he also realised that him suggesting the idea of removing himself from Winston's case would be regarded with suspicion. In all likelihood, they would assume the attachment was reciprocated and he would be branded a sexual deviant and thought-criminal. Although, O'Brien took a lot of pride in his work and the deftness of his ability to carry out said work, he could acknowledge that he was disposable. He may have one of the best after years of honing his craft, constantly seeking to better himself for the Party, and replacing him may even be a tad irritating for the Ministry but he was replaceable none the less.

If he couldn't find a solution it was very likely he would be replaced. The thought left a bitter taste in his mouth, stronger than the coffee. He lived for the Party and would be happily die for it but if he could prolong his life then he certainly would.

So it was to his great misfortune that Winston was making that quite difficult. 

For now, he would just continue as normal. He was probably just using him as a replacement Julia. His stomach tensed at the thought in a similar manner as it did in the Two Minute Hate, but as he did with many things concerning this issue, he ignored it.

-===-

Winston's treatment proceeded smoothly and, despite his slow progress, he was being to look like a respectable Outer Party member. O'Brien's chest swelled whenever they overcame one of his many beliefs without issue, sometimes not using the dial for a whole session. As he was in the last few stages, they'd began feeding him normally again and put him in one of the usual rehabilitation cells. He had been a difficult case but it would soon be time for him to re-enter society, where he would eventually learn to love Big Brother and be redeemed in death.

This event was now occurring sooner than expected but when was Winston ever not an issue.

After having been informed of his unorthodox cries of the female perpetrator's name, he approached the cell, guards following behind him to prevent any opposition. He wasn't concerned; He knew how weak-willed and passive the other was. The door clattered against the wall as it was swung open, causing Winston to flinch where he sat yet his eyes remorseful yet determined. Still conflicted. He clenched his fists tighter, knuckles blanching as the skin stretched tighter, bones threatening to escape. He commanded him to come over, settling his hands on his shoulders. Composing himself with a sigh, he gently chided him before informing that it was time for the last step. Room 101. Pushing Winston harshly toward the guards, he went to prepare for the procedure. 

They had been transporting a few of larger rodents for the occasion but since Winston had apparently decided he was leaving early, the rats they had were fairly average. They would likely suffice due to his vivid imagination but it was moments like these when he really wished the wine ration was higher.

Upon entering Room 101, his eyes were immediately caught by Winston's, filled with uncertainty. Searching his own for stability. He broke his gaze, explaining the last step, watching how he trembled as the rodents were scuttled about the cage. Their shuffles and squeaks seeming so insignificant to himself but deafening to the other. The urge to laugh was intense as one of the rats bumped bars, jostling the door's creaky hinges, making Winston squirm. He started to protest, bordering on tears as he realised the function of the mask-like attachment. O'Brien didn't falter, his voice unfazed as he continued to taunt him with the memories of his recurring nightmare but even still the other continued to look to him for understanding. 

"You know this is not necessary. What is it that you want me to do?"

He could hear the way the other attempted to steady his voice despite the way it continued to waver. Considering the question, he thought of Room 101's purpose, the weaponisation of the thought-criminal's worst fear to break them completely. Sometimes pain isn't enough. Winston didn't understand this explanation though, or simply didn't want to, as he continued to ramble nonsensically, frustrating him to no ends. His sadistic nature returned as he brought the rodents closer, beginning to mock him with the exaggerated descriptions of their carnivorous nature. He knew it wasn't necessary by the way he eyed them as if they were grotesque but continued anyway. As the rats lunged at the partitions separating them, the bonds on his chair rattled erratically, his attempts to escape becoming frantic. It was no use, he was firmly fixed in place.

O'Brien allowed no place for his thoughts to wander as he explained its function in excruciating detail, watching as his victim squirmed. When it was no more than a metre away his groans turned despairing, only growing worse as it hovered nearer to his head. His face took on a new repulsed turned as it was mere inches from his face, mind visibly racing for an escape. The rats' stench was almost completely overwhelmed by Winston's fear, each heaved gasp exuding anxiety. At the intensity of his thrashing, he would either break the chair, himself or past out before he'd even put it on. Just as he lowered it, the metal barely having grazed his face, Winston found his escape, desperately pleading for them to take Julia in his place. He had barely clicked it shut before the other had collapsed from adrenaline crash. A genuine betrayal of her. The smile that split his face had long since become unfamiliar.

If he didn't love her, then a substitute wouldn't be needed.

The freedom he felt was greater than any slavery.

-===-

Winston had been reintegrated soon after that, and had been for many years. He seemed to be doing well too, at least from the few and far between briefings he got to review his progress. He had his new job, got involved in a lot of activities, seemed to actually enjoy some of the telescreen's commentary. All had seemed to be going so well. 

But of course that wouldn't be the case because, as previously established, this was Winston and when was Winston ever not difficult. He could help but mentally scold himself for not even considering this. This being Winston suffering a mental breakdown and attempting suicide. By carving unorthodox phrases into his skin no less. The thought made his stomach twist. 

They had gotten to him fairly quickly, despite the way he barricaded himself in his new apartment, and he was currently in a stable condition. The scars would remain though even if they tattooed over them, meaning that even his skin was a mocking protest to the Party's regime. Winston seemed to realise this as, despite his hysterical ravings upon waking up, he held an air of pride as he took in the sight of his bandaged arms. 

Apparently he'd been asking for him too, which was why he was now observing from behind a one-sided mirror, assessing his state of mind. He ground his teeth watching the way each time a doctor or nurse came to check on him, Winston dimmed with blatant disappointment. He didn't need the microphone to know how he asked for him each time. He saw his own name on his lips, formed in some sort of deranged desperation. His nose was crinkled in disgust.

By now, it was now of a question of when O'Brien was going to be vaporised rather than if. The thought was bittersweet as, even though he had no desire to go, at least he didn't have to constantly avoid his inevitable fate. He wouldn't admit it of course but there was something liberating about it. Less incentive to hold back. 

A weak comfort but comfort none the less.

Someone called him from the door, instructing him to confront the criminal. He felt himself falter as, for the first time in his career, he doesn't know what to say or even what is desired of him. He continued with steady, measured steps as he made his way to Winston's room. The briefing they had given him suggested that they wanted to continue with his treatment so he should just continue as normal. He hopes.

Winston didn't look up immediately when he entered, his eyes fixated on his bandaged right arm as he picked at the fraying edges of the gauze. The wounds on that arm were much more jagged, having the appearance of being torn rather than sliced, likely due to his inexperience at wielding a razor blade left-handed. His gaze was intense, unnervingly so like he was re-enacting the memory internally. It was only when he pulled over a chair that Winston noticed him. 

"O'Brien!", he cried, relief oozing from the syllables, sounding reverential on his tongue. He told himself he could ignore it, he has to, but the sound rung in his head. 

Keeping his voice composed, he replied, "You've gotten yourself into quite a mess, haven't you?", his eyes flicking to the other's bandages. For the first time since he arrived, Winston looked a little remorseful at his own actions so he continued, crossing his arms, "It's disappointing to say the least, especially with how well you were doing."

Winston fell silent, looking away from the intensity of his gaze, picking at his bandages once more. 

"What reason could you possibly have to jeopardise your progress?"

"I...wanted to die against the Party...", he said half-heartedly, like he didn't believe it himself.

"Don't lie so obviously Winston", he chided.

"Is it so hard to believe that I just don't want to succumb to the will of the Party?"

"Not at all. It may be true that you don't but that isn't your reasoning at all. You can't even convince yourself of that, never mind me."

"What other reason would I have?", he asked incredulously. He can sense the anxiety in his words as though he's afraid of being caught despite having already been apprehended. 

"That's my line", he resettled his glasses, already knowing Winston's reason. Despising it.

"I don't understand why you do this."

"What's that?"

"You ask me things when you clearly already know."

O'Brien fought a grin at his words, so petulant in manner. Winston knew why he did it really. Just didn't like it.

"Confession of sin paths the path of redemption."

The other absorbed his words with blatant distaste, his mind wandering away from the topic as he took in his features. There was a beat of silence before he speaks again.

"You never told me why you are so tired", he murmured, his eyes examining his face with a disconcerting intensity.

"I didn't", he replied curtly, "and you didn't tell me why you did it."

"You know why I did it."

"Then you have no reason to not tell me."

"You never answer my questions."

"I have no reason to."

"Neither do I", there is an edge of defiance in his words, like he has authority of any kind. The thought is so laughable he can't stop himself from being cruel.

"Then I have no reason to be here", he gets up, purposefully screeching his chair, enjoying Winston's flinch at the suddenness of his action. He only makes it halfway to the door before he stops him.

"Wait!", that frantic mania returned full force as Winston's confident persona crumbles. He turned back to face him, allowing himself to look exasperated with the other, looking at him expectantly. "Don't leave me..."

"Then tell me, Winston."

The other's silence returned as hesitance overcame him, like he wasn't not sure if its worth it. Technically speaking it wasn't but it was the only option he really had. "I wanted...to see you."

Even though he already knew the reason, hearing it aloud left a sour taste in his mouth. For once, he wished he was wrong, wished Winston hated the Party more, wished he was more disgusted by Winston's feelings.

"...why?", he doesn't know the answer, hadn't meant to say it aloud. The question leaves him feeling exposed and vulnerable, though Winston doesn't take any easy shots.

"You're the only one who...understood", he said, self-consciously playing with his hands, "You don't agree with me but at least you get it...or well, you did."

O'Brien gave him a questioning look to prompt him to expand on his correction, to which Winston only extended the laconic phrase, "It's been a while."

He found himself incredibly unpleased with the response, so defeated and dreary that he returned challengingly "What was the point then? You try to kill yourself to see me and now that I'm here, you've achieved nothing."

Winston seemed to whither under this response as if his fragile mind had collapsed in on itself. Second guessing his decisions so quickly. "...I got to see you", the retort was meek and so unintimidating that he actually let out a mean chuckle. It was the frustration that really got him, so pathetic, childish even.

"And risked death with no real reward. After all you have gained nothing by seeing me", he said tauntingly, "Unless you enjoyed your previous residency at the Ministry of Love."

Despite the growing sense of anger and frustration at his words, Winston managed a grimace at his words, "It wasn't pointless."

"So what is this point?", he asked, putting on an air of ridicule, knowing Winston's justification would surely be inane. 

"I can die without regretting having never done this", Winston then leant over to him, kissing him lightly. Firm yet chaste.

An affirmation of affection more than a kiss really. It's not passionate, triumphant, or even romantic. It's solemn and tired. He follows after he moves away but remembers where they are. Realises they have no time. They take in each other's features, both so weary, aged and ugly. The product of a system built on hate, knowing they will never be accepted by it. 

O'Brien's assumption of it not being a matter of if is confirmed as there is a commotion at the door. He doesn't turn to look, instead taking in that unending resilience in Winston that he can't ever find in his own reflection, knowing he'd also have one less regret.

**Author's Note:**

> You don't have to read this but if you are curious, I hadn't planned on having O'Brien reciprocate originally. It was more just I found some of their dialogue together mildly amusing but I love them together and apart. 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed even if you didn't like it.
> 
> Have a nice day~


End file.
